


the whole world is moving (and i'm standing still)

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is tired of pretending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the whole world is moving (and i'm standing still)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for period-appropriate ableism.
> 
> Title and lyrics at the start from "The World Spins Madly On" by The Weepies. Thanks to **heyjupiter** and **brilligspoons** for looking this over. I like to think this takes place in a universe where the last five minutes of the movie are slightly different and Charles is a tiny bit less of a dick.

_Woke up and wished that I was dead_  
With an aching in my head  
I lay motionless in bed  
I thought of you and where you'd gone  
and the world spins madly on

Charles spends a little over two weeks in the hospital. They're long, awful weeks made all the more long and awful by the smile he keeps plastered on his face and by the heavy weight of loneliness left behind by the departure of his sister and the man with whom he had foolishly allowed himself to begin to build a future. He appreciates the boys, of course, but it's clear they aren't sure what to do--thus far he'd been more of an authority figure to them than a friend, even if he's only a handful of years older. They're looking to him for answers, for a purpose, and he has to simper and tell them that everything will be fine even as his own vision of the future turns bleak and grey in the absence of Raven and Erik.

Moira is better. Moira knows how to take charge, how to get the doctors to do what needs to be done with minimum fuss. Moira speaks fluent Spanish and invents a suitable cover story and keeps them off the radar. Moira makes sure the boys eat and rest. Moira calls her contacts daily for information on the remnants of Shaw's merry band of mutants and their new leader.

Most of all, Moira never looks at him like he's damaged or like he has any clue of what's to come next. Her guilt is all-consuming--he's too tired and too morose to keep himself from searching through all their brains to see what they're thinking, what they think of _him_ in his new, useless condition--but she's converting that guilt into energy, into purpose. He looks forward to the hour or two she spends sitting with him in the evenings. She never asks questions. She never _thinks_ questions. She sits and reads and sometimes doesn't even talk to him.

It's an hour or two a day that he doesn't have to be cheerful and polite. He appreciates that more than he can express.

It takes them some time to get back to New York, once Charles is discharged. In the end, in the most flagrant disregard for his own moral code that he's acted on since he was a child, he uses his telepathy to get them all tickets on a boat to Miami and then a flight to New York. Just being on the water outside of Miami _hurts_. So little time has passed since that night. He still remembers the jolt from wrapping his arms around Erik for the first time, still remembers the way they stared at each other as they bobbed in the water and waited for rescue.

They had so little time and he wasted so much of it not listening.

The mansion has always seemed empty, but even though there are still more people inside of it than there has been in years, it feels even emptier when Moira wheels Charles inside (through the servants' entrance--there's no ramp for the front stairs yet).

"What room do you want to use until the elevator's installed?" Moira asks. It's a direct, almost careless question asked without a wince and without hesitation. It makes it easier for Charles to direct her towards the room his great-grandmother had used in his youth, quiet and secluded with a good view of the east garden and accessible to a fragile woman who had to make use of a cane. Or, in Charles' case, a twenty-four year old cripple.

"Well," Charles says, summoning all the strength he can muster, "I suppose we should get back to our routine."

Charles can't say that the usual training regimen takes his mind off of things. Charles' mind is huge and vast and he has the ability to mentally multi-task on a level that would astound anyone whose brain wasn't fundamentally altered and expanded by the use of telepathy. He can focus on teaching the boys and taking care of the house and ordering the proper modifications for his _condition_ while still ruminating over what he did wrong, mourning his loss, replaying that day in his head over and over again.

He still gets out of bed every morning. It's harder than it ever was, not just because the physical act of pushing himself up and getting into the chair leaves him panting, but because he wakes just as alone as he was when he went to sleep. He still gets up, though, and he continues to give lessons and make lunch and have conversations with Hank and Alex and Sean and Moira. But only because if he didn't, they'd worry, and he's too fucking tired to deal with their guilt right now.

The week of Thanksgiving, apparently pleased by Charles' autonomy, the boys anxiously approach him. Alex is the one who speaks, surprisingly, clearing his throat and folding his hands on Charles' desk. Hank has become, somehow, the de-facto leader of the children, his confidence and authority growing with his blue fur. But it's Alex who says, "We'd like a few days off."

It makes sense. Sean has a family he hasn't seen in months; they think he's at boarding school. Hank has an apartment in Virginia that was never cleaned out and parents he hasn't talked to in weeks. ("I can't see them, obviously, but with a coat and hat and as long as I don't linger on the street too long, I could empty out my place and give them a call at least," he explains, running a hand through the blue fur on his head.) And Alex....

"I know you called Darwin's folks," he says, "but...I just wanted to stop by. Talk to them, maybe. He always talked about his sisters. I think they should know how smart he thought they were."

They have a plan, neatly laid out. Hank will drive down to Virginia and drop Sean off at the airport and Alex at the train station. On his way back north, he'll pick up Alex and Sean. They'll be back by Sunday.

"Moira will be here," Alex says. "I mean, if you need anything. Not that you can't--um."

Charles has mercy on the boy. "It's a wonderful idea," he says. "After all, this is supposed to be a school and schools do break for the holiday. Have a good time, gentlemen, and do call if you need anything."

They look between each other, as if surprised by the ease of the negotiation, and then murmur their thanks before leaving him again, chatting about their plans and finalizing the details. Charles lets out a long breath that he feels like he's been holding since Cuba.

The boys aren't the only one who need a few days off.

***

Charles has been very good, very disciplined. His stepfather, he thinks ruefully, would have been proud. Every day, he has gotten up out of bed. Every day, he has trained his students, kept up with the renovations on the house, seen to the day to day minutiae of feeding and sheltering three teenage boys, done his physical therapy, and presented himself as a capable, functional individual.

Not today.

Today, with the boys out of the house and Moira taking care of her own business, he is going to stay in bed. Today, Charles is going to mourn and allow the listlessness he's been feeling to take over. Today, Charles is going to think about Erik, think about Raven, think about his useless legs, and be properly upset. He's going to give into the gnawing in his chest and stop with the forced smiles. He's going to wallow in how quickly everything in his life went to hell, how quickly he lost everything that was dear to him and how hopelessly bleak the future seems.

He turns his face to the side, blinking back tears as his hand strays to the empty side of the bed, the place that should be occupied by the man he thought he was going to grow old with. He was idiotic to think that in the first place--they never would have been able to move past their differences in ideology. He was naive and childish to think otherwise and he's sure that's exactly what Erik saw when he looked at Charles: naive and childish, but attractive enough to tolerate.

But no. That's not what Erik thought at all. Charles has been inside Erik's mind, has seen himself through Erik's eyes, and Erik _loved him_. He loved in a way he hadn't since he lost his parents. He loved Charles so much it frightened him. And that makes it worse.

He lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow as if, deep down, there might be the last traces of Erik's scent lingering in the sheets. Ludicrous. He knows it's ludicrous, knows that Erik has never even been in this bed, that when Erik was with him he was whole, he didn't have to retreat to a first floor room to avoid the stairs. But, god, he can see him, can close his eyes and imagine Erik sliding into bed with him in this musty room, commenting dryly on his great-grandmother's design choices, tsking at the strong, wooden bedframe and end tables, devoid of handy bits of metal or supports he could strengthen with a wave of his hand.

He opens his eyes before he loses touch with reality. He's tried that--it just makes coming back to himself hurt that much more.

It's just too much. He knows he's lived a sheltered life, for the most part. There are certain advantages to being rich and white that he's not blind to, advantages to being a man, too, as Raven would have reminded him, rolling her eyes. His power, too, gives him a certain amount of cushion, though he tries not to rely on it that way. Despite all this, he's tried--and perhaps failed--to be cognizant of those around him and their struggles, tried to help others where he could.

If this was a test from the fates to punish his hubris, he doesn't understand why it had to be so completely devastating. Losing the ability to walk would have been trying enough, painful enough, but if he still had Raven to force him out of bed, to yell at him when he's being obstinate, hug him when he's had a hard day--he could bear it, then. He could pull himself together if he had someone to lean on, he knows it. He could get through the day without feeling like he's putting on a show if his heart hadn't been torn to pieces.

And, god, even without his legs, he still feels like he could take on anything with Erik at his side.

A sigh turns into a whimper turns into something like a sob and Charles feels the hot tears on his cheeks, feels the pillowcase dampen and stick to his face as cries out the anger and the unfairness and the dizzying loss for the first time since he was carried off that beach in Cuba.

***

He doesn't know how long he's been malingering. The sun is out and filtering through the drawn curtains. The wet patch on his pillow is mostly dry. He's drifting in and out of sleep and he knows he should pull himself from bed at some point, eat lunch at the very least, but he can't bring himself to care. He's not feeling particularly hungry and he sees no reason to get out of bed until he absolutely has to. The sheer effort of getting himself into the chair, getting himself dressed and clean, is enough to make him want to pull the blankets over his head again, so he closes his eyes and breathes and returns to the foggy land between dreaming and waking where he's not thinking of Erik and Raven, where he's not conscious enough to brood on what's happened to him, merely floating between the fuzzy thoughts in his head as he chases a dream he never quite understands when he drifts back into consciousness.

More time passes and then the door creaks open.

Charles keeps his eyes closed. Moira has been so good at keeping to herself, keeping out of his way, as if she's the psychic and can tell when he wants company and when he wants to be left alone, that he'd hoped she'd spend her week tending to her own life. He could send her away with little more than a thought, a nudge that there's no reason to worry, that she has more pressing things to attend to on the other side of the house, but before he can so much as formulate the command, she says, "You have one day."

He doesn't open his eyes, but he knows, without poking around her mind, that she's aware he's awake.

"One day," she repeats. "You deserve it. Everything in your life was ruined that day, and I get that. You can spend one day in bed, wallowing, but tomorrow you have to get up."

He should continue to ignore her, pretend he hasn't heard her, but he finds himself rolling over, squinting at her through eyes he knows are rimmed with red. She's standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, and the light from the hall is making her hazy and ethereal around the edges. She's beautiful and, right now, he might hate her.

"You're not my mother and you're not my nurse," he says. He hopes it sounds more dignified and less petulant out loud than it sounds in his head. "This is my house and I can spend as much time in my bed as a bloody well please."

"You can," Moira allows, "but you're not going to. Tomorrow morning, you're going to get out of bed and bathe and come downstairs and have breakfast with me. We'll do the crossword puzzle and you'll take your appointment with your physical therapist and then we'll walk the perimeter to look at the security flaws before the consultant comes to install the cameras and fences next week. It'll be awful, but you'll do it anyway."

Charles doesn't want to do any of those things. Charles doesn't want to hire a security consultant for the school--he's not even sure he wants to run a school any more. The task of starting from scratch, building this all up on his own when he can't even navigate his own office without help is daunting. It's too daunting today, when all he wants to do is sleep and hope that when he wakes up, everything will be better.

"Why would I do any of that?" he asks Moira, closing his eyes again. Looking at her hurts.

"Because this was absolutely horrible," Moira says. "What happened to you--it was devastating. And I understand that. I can't imagine losing as much in one day as you did. I lost a third of that, once, and I thought my life was over. But you're a strong person, Charles, and you're twenty-four. You can get past this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you're too young to give up."

"Young," Charles says, shaking his head. "I'm not young anymore. No one is going to look at me in that chair and think 'young.'"

"It doesn't matter what they think," Moira says. He hears the click of her heels on the floor and when he opens his eyes, she's moved out of the harsh light of the doorway. She's standing an arm's length away and her expression is softer. "You can't let what they think bother you. That's your problem--you don't want to ruffle feathers. If you're really going to do this your way--legally and directly and without blowing up half the world--you're going to have to upset the status quo. You need to get used to ignoring what other people think."

"And what if I don't want to do this anymore?" he asks. He wants to ask it defiantly, to glare at Moira and challenge her and get her to leave him alone to his misery.

It doesn't come out that way. It's quiet and plaintive and more honest than he'd like.

Moira sighs and sits on the edge of the bed.

"You're twenty-four," she says, not unkindly. "You were bound to get your heart broken sooner or later. I doubt this will be the last time. And it might never be like this again--you might never--" She stutters, and Charles feels his cheeks go hot with shame because he knows he should be relieved she's not carting him off to an institution, but instead he can't help but be embarrassed that his relationship with Erik was so transparent. "You might never love someone else the way you loved Erik," she continues, not quite meeting his eyes, "but life goes on. It's going on right now. And it's without your sister and without--without Erik, but it's happening. All you can do is work as hard as you can to build a world where mutants and humans can co-exist. The harder you fight, the sooner it will happen and the sooner it happens, the sooner Raven and Erik will come home."

Charles laughs without humor, closing his eyes again against that thought, that deep surge of fiendish desire, the curl of longing for a future that once again includes Raven, includes Erik. It's so close to the world in his head that he can't let himself get lost in it, the foolish dreams of a life where Raven doesn't resent him, where Erik can release his rage and stay by Charles' side.

"I don't think such a thing is possible," Charles says. "I'm afraid I've bollixed all that up rather badly."

"I don't know," Moira says. "I think they both love you enough to forgive you, so long as you have it in you to forgive them. You have to hold out hope."

"I don't have any hope left," Charles says on a sigh. He blinks at Moira through the wetness in his eyes. He wants her to go away, ashamed to be seen like this, but he's deeply grateful that she's here all the same.

"Of course you do," Moira says. "That's what makes your future so much better than Erik's. You still have hope. You still think the world can be a better place. Hold onto it long enough and I don't doubt you can convince the rest of the world of that too."

Charles takes a deep breath, but his lungs still feel desperate for air and half-empty. He's lightheaded with a mixture of despair and desperate faith. He's not sure he can believe that right now--that he can really change the world--but Moira does and he needs to cling to that until he can find it in himself to believe it as well. He doesn't want to cry again, not now, not in front of the one person who's continued to treat him like a human being through all of this, the one person who's ignored his weakness, but the pressure behind his eyes is building and his throat feels slick and thick. He puts his hand on Moira's knee, not salaciously, but to prove he can still touch another human being, he can still hold onto someone without breaking them into pieces.

"Hey," she says. "It's okay." Her fingers brush his hair back, cool against his skin, and an image slips into his mind unbidden, a memory of Moira's, of Moira in a black dress and pearls, of Moira sitting on the couch in an empty house and sobbing to herself over all she'd lost, of Moira so incredibly sure that her life was over at twenty-one.

Her life didn't end then. She pulled herself together, made herself stronger, found something worthwhile to pour her grief into. Charles can do that, too.

"I still get today, though, right?" he asks, voice wavering on the edge of a sob.

"Yes," she says. She's smiling less sadly than he expects. "You can have today."

"Thank god," he says, and turns his face into his pillow, his shoulders shaking with the effort to remain silent as he sobs. Moira rubs his back, her touch solid and gentle. He hates the weakness, but appreciates the comfort more than he can articulate, letting the choked waves of gratitude speak for themselves.

Tomorrow he'll get out of bed and wash his face and make himself presentable. He'll pull himself together and start to get his home--his _school_ in order. He'll be the person he needs to be, he'll be one of the most powerful mutants on the planet, a man who can change the world. Today, though, he's just Charles, missing his sister and his lover, just another man who's unspeakably sad.

Tomorrow he'll make the world a better place. Today he's allowed to mourn.


End file.
